


more than true

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:14:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2661635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about tales. And the heroes that make up tales, and the tales that make up heroes.<br/>And the wolves who love those heroes, and the heroes who love them back, sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	more than true

**Author's Note:**

> fairly major plot spoilers ahead, just be warned.
> 
> also, mild canon divergence. nothing super significant, just bits and pieces and some post-game implications.

_Once upon a time--_

 

One evening the Inquisitor walked into the mountains and didn't come back.

It was a pleasant evening. Early spring, starting to warm but snow still covered the ground. She was near Haven, what was once Haven, the Haven she remembered.

Vaguely.

The sky was cloudless and the breeze was swift and cool. One had the sense of, somewhere far above, a _safe_ sky. One could thank her for that. The Inquisitor. Lady Inquisitor Lavellan. The Lady Inquisitor Katja Lavellan.

You know.

If one wanted to.

Somewhere over the mountains, the sun was setting, but with those manifestations of rock in the way (like fingers reaching out from the ground up toward the heavens), it seemed almost like it already had. Nobody saw the Inquisitor actually _leave._ They just saw her slowly-vanishing silhouette after she got too far away for someone to reasonably give chase. Eventually her silhouette, too, disappeared as the sun dipped low in the sky and night took over.

She carried no supplies, and does not hesitate. It is believed that she spoke to no one, not even her most trusted advisers, not even her inner circle of companions, not _anyone_ , and it is certain that no one spoke to her. She simply walked away.

Cole reported later that he watched Katja's departure after he noticed it, until her silhouette was a pinprick in the distance, never to be seen or heard from again.

But that was long ago, long ago. When things were different, and the sky was just a little younger, and wishing still helped.

You'd remember, I'm sure, if it wasn't _so_ long ago.

 

Sometimes there are wolves. Folk remember those better than anything, the wolves. And that's because wolves do things like steal sheep, or wait in the darkness with unsettling yellow eyes, and dress up in old women's clothing, and all those things are the sorts of things a person remembers.

Wolves also give ancient elven artifacts to centuries-old darkspawn and hope for the best. That's another thing wolves sometimes do.

Sometimes there's a forest, or a coastline, or a desert, or a town. More often, there's not. Lately there is a keep. Skyhold. A fitting name, perhaps. To hold the sky, that was Katja's duty in a sense. To fend off the rifts. To keep the Beyond on one side and her world on the other.

Sometimes, though, wolves have ideas of their own. That's why they're in all the tales, after all. They have _all_ these ideas.

But even if there was no wolf, the land would remember. That's what land does, it keeps a record of things. Everything that happens leaves a mark. Significant events leave deeper marks. Isn't that logical? How nice of the land to make sense in that way. How nice of the land to scar in a way that could be understood.

The land remembers, _has_ memory, and it remembers scarring events, but also other things.

Patterns, habits. The fears of those who would dwell there. Hopes and dreams, too, and all that lot. But there's nothing stronger than the land.

Except that one thing. But you probably know what _that_ is.

 

When that mark appeared on her hand, Katja Lavellan was afraid. Then she was angry. Then she accepted it. Shemlen respect meant little to her, but she could _use_ it. And she did use it. The Inquisition was what she made it, and it was good.

Solas was the one who showed her that the anchor could be used. Stubbornly independent though she was in many things, this was something she was glad to have guidance on. For what it was worth. For whatever it was worth.

 

Inquisitor Lavellan has had the same values she's always had since the day she was born.

Katja Lavellan has had the same values she's had since the mark appeared on her hand.

The Lady Inquisitor once had a Keeper, a clan, a family, a childhood. She grew up in the Free Marches, and built a life in her clan.

Katja feels like she has never _not_ been the Herald.

One day, Katja walked into the Frostback mountains and never returned.

She went after the mages (templars) ( _mages_ ) ( _templars_ ) about a week after that.

She walked into the mountains and never returned.

And shortly after, she went to a party to stop the assassin of an empress and succeeded (failed) (failed again) (failed on _purpose_ ).

She walked into the mountains and never returned.

Then she dealt with the Wardens (and Hawke) (not Hawke) (Varric wouldn't forgive her for that) (unless he did).

(Sometimes she does the right thing because it's right. Sometimes not.)

 

Later, the Inquisitor found herself speaking with Solas. Again.

She seemed to do that a lot. Or maybe she just thought she did. In comparison, maybe she did. In comparison to the businesslike manner of speaking she employed with everyone else.

Regardless, this time the conversation went like this:

Solas said something, Katja replied with a half-hearted attempt at flirting, Solas said something else, Katja laughed.

The sound startled her, and for a second she worried that the sound came from a stranger, though she saw no one. And then she wondered how long it had been since she was this happy, that she couldn't recognize her own laughter anymore. And then the cold Frostback air swallowed the sound of her laughter, too, and there was only her, and Solas, Solas who was something solid, something real, and she let herself really _be_ what she was.

 

Once upon a time, there was a king's daughter, the second child of three, who went to seek her fortune after betrayal, and she wandered into an enchanted forest on the Surface to save the world from a Blight and--

But no, the forest couldn't have been the enchanted thing, not _this_ time, that was a decade ago.

Let's try _again_.

Once upon a time, there was a mage's daughter, an eldest sister, who went to seek her fortune after discovering her family lost theirs, and she wandered into a very old city by the sea where two opposing forces were--

Only that's not right either, _all_ _wrong_ , and years old as well.

 _Again._ We can get it right, I know we can.

Once upon a time, there was a hunter's daughter, an only child, who went to seek her fortune after her Keeper's orders led her away from home, and she wandered into an ancient temple when the sky split open and--

_Yes._

 

The Inquisitor confessed her attraction to Solas in a dream. Which was fitting, even if she didn't know that's what it was at the time.

But oh, _Creators,_ it was beautiful.

In the instant before that initial kiss, Lavellan was quiet. Which was rare for her. She was not a quiet person, not often, words so often seemed to be all she had (strip away might, mark, and magic, what is left of the elf beneath?) and so she so often reveled in her words. But in that moment she said nothing, just kissed him.

And it was a strange thing, because Katja Lavellan was many things (mighty, marked, magical) but she had never considered herself a romantic individual. But when she kissed Solas, it was like she was kissing the smell of the wilderness and the concept of dreams, and the here-now-then-gone feeling of the Fade, and she could feel Solas smile under her lips, until they broke apart.

So that was something.

 

Sometimes Katja dies.

Demons, maybe, or swords, or a dragon-or-monster-or-malevolent-ancestor. Or eating the food from the witch's table, or straying from the path, or not showing kidness to the beggar, or trusting the old woman who lives alone or or or or _or_ \--

Katja's walked in the mountains a thousand times. Not once has she come back.

And where does she go, as she leaves? Where does she go, wandering over those frigid mountains, the lights of cities and towns and _life_ behind her? What does she do up there, so far from everyone she ever knew and loved?

Does it matter? Would knowing make it better?

She won't speak about it, if you ask her. Cassandra's tried to ask. Josephine has asked at least once. She won't respond. She'll just stare blankly, as if she has no idea what the one asking her is talking about. And who knows? Maybe she doesn't.

 

And there's always a hero, isn't there? Always a displaced noble, or a Circle mage, or a betrayed princess, or the eldest child of an apostate, or a Carta thug, or a Qunari mercenary. Or a Dalish First.

And though witches and demons and mysterious, _awful_ things may be anything they please, it is-- somehow-- important that the hero walk on two legs, and smile. That she feel joy, and despair, and betrayal. That she be a _person._

 

They grew closer, Katja and Solas. It was to be expected, perhaps. Katja felt it was. There was no other way her tale could have gone. For her to get that close to anyone else might have made her tale a little different, but not completely so. It would have ended the same. Maybe.

Hard to say with certainty. Nothing is certain. Nothing is ever certain, especially not the past. And it's not as though she'd go back and change a thing even if she could (she can't though) (even if she hadn't thought the idea stupid on principle, the magister showed her why mucking about with time was stupid) (or did he) (maybe he didn't) (maybe she fought Envy instead).

Regardless, without meaning to, Katja fell in love.

It's a little awkward, a little clumsy, but it works. Or maybe not. Rather: it works until it doesn't. Didn't. Wouldn't. Might-not've. Did again. Worked again. All better...ish. Betterish. Maybe. Sort of.

(Creators, she has no idea.)

But all that confusion came later.

For the time being, they were happy. And somewhere in Thedas, there was a rift needing sealing, missing heirlooms, bandits on a pathway, mages and templars, things being broken and fixed, and--

And Solas was there, and Katja was there with him.

So she slept.

 

When Lavellan finds out the truth about Solas, it saddens her.

When Lavellan finds out the truth about Solas, it angers her.

When Lavellan finds out the truth about Solas, she forgives him (or not) (maybe) (maybe sometimes) (maybe _this_ time).

 

_Once upon a time, in a land far, far away--_

 

The land remembers. It's remembered for a long, long time now. And isn't that the land's job, to carry all the old ghosts?

To remember mages and templars, dragons and giants, and old women who live in the woods and change shape and show kindness to those who will benefit them.

And wolves and the elves who love them (until they don't) (and then don't until they do again).

It remembers towers and keeps and homes and farms and docks and castles and the beautiful, wild emptiness of what the land was long ago, before these people and those people, before _so-and-so,_ before anyone. It remembers the shape of tales.

 

A tale is made up of a lot of things. There is setting, of course. Cities, buildings, roads and side-streets and alleyways. Forests and caves and old, unsettling ruins where the sky rips open. Coastlines where storms can swallow ships whole. The Beyond, and all that it is and all that it has the potential to be.

And a tale is made up of people. Those who help, those who need help, and those who fall somewhere in between. Children, adults, and clever dwarven rogues and there-and-gone spirits and ambitious mages who will voice their disapproval. Seekers, and spies, and diplomats, and apostates. And the endless, eternal heartbeat of the land.

Sometimes a tale is made up of heroes. Sometimes a single hero is made up of tales. Sometimes tales need heartbeats need voices.

Sometimes it's important that even when a hero is made out of tales, that hero walks on two legs, and smiles, and feels happiness and betrayal. Because the hero must be a person.

Because the land remembers, and the land is strong, but one thing is stronger.

Have you guessed it yet?

 

It's early morning. Cold in Skyhold.

Katja stirs in Solas' arms. “Good morning,” she breathes.

“Good morning,” says Solas.

Katja leans her forehead against his and mouths 'I love you' and even now, Solas' face lights up at the words and he tells her, “I love you, too.”

And someday Katja will leave, will walk out into the mountains, will be too used-up and not enough of a person to be a hero anymore. Or maybe first she'll be killed by a demon, or she'll take a sword through the stomach, or a mage will hit her in the back with a spell when she's not looking, or she'll discover Solas' secret, and someday all this will end.

But not today. Today there's still _love._

 

Of course that was it. What kind of tale did you _think_ this was?

 

Sometimes the hero has a lover.

 _Often_ , the hero has a lover. Not always, but very often.

Love is an important part of the tales and to leave it out would be to ignore a crucial part of the way people work. The lover's always different, of course. Could be a former pirate captain, or a bastard prince, or an assassin. An elf who will not be shackled, or a bard who will not be ignored. Maybe a Qunari, just the once, for variety. Or... perhaps an apostate, those are common lovers for the hero. They fill the role, and well. A wild witch, a Dalish mage, a possessed and angry revolutionary. Or an elf from a village, who spends a lot of time dreaming, and is also a wolf.

 

And they lived happily ever after, until the end of their days.

Don't they always?

( _Don't_ they?)

 


End file.
